


I Regret Nothing

by john6lisa



Category: Bering and Wells - Fandom
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 08:50:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6232246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/john6lisa/pseuds/john6lisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A/N This idea for this story woke me in the middle of the night, not leaving me until I at least wrote a chapter. It takes place during the weeks before, during and after the first Moon landing. Yeah yeah, all those 'we didn't land and government hoax and, whatever. I fell in love with space and science fiction because my parents made sure I witnessed them. My Endless Wonder</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Regret Nothing

I Regret Nothing

A/N This idea for this story woke me in the middle of the night, not leaving me until I at least wrote a chapter. It takes place during the weeks before, during and after the first Moon landing. Yeah yeah, all those ‘we didn't land and government hoax and, whatever. I fell in love with space and science fiction because my parents made sure I witnessed these events which lead to big dreams and endless wonder. No worries, I will be updating and finishing my other stories, health and work issues have reduced my writing to nil. 

________________________________________

 

June 11, 1969 Cocoa Beach Florida

XXX

“Another round, doc?” The rough hand hovering the bottle of brown liquor over her glass, the young girl lifting her eyes from the thick book she had been studious and enraptured with, adjusting her black horn rimmed glasses up her nose as she spoke.

“Yes, thank you, Mickey,” her automatic smile halting just a tick of the clock as she studied his sun weathered hand, a slight bent finger resting on the hilt of the bottle. ‘ A pugilist’ she thought to herself, her eyes tracing over the arthritic knuckles, once fair skin now dotted with sun and age spots across the top of his hand.

“How many TKO’s?” The woman smirking into her shot glass as she closed her book, taking care to mark off the last page.

“None as many as those fancy framed whatever's hanging in your Father’s office. Now be a dear and turn your nose up to the living,” a wide smile shining all the way up into his hazel eyes. Myka following his gaze as he watched a strange face enter the bar, some of the old timer’s grumbling at the bright rays cutting an unwelcome path through the dimly lit place.

“Lost tourist?” Myka commented, never looking behind at the grumbles and closing door as she thumbed a small dribble from her shot from the corner of her lip.

“Never you mind.” The elder man said, grabbing the clean, white rag, flinging it over his shoulder as he poured the woman another shot. “Go about your studies while I direct this lost soul to the nearest ‘Shell emporium’ down the road.” Patting the young girl's hand, then making his way down to the other end of the polished oak bar.

Myka shook her head, willing away the small quake of a laugh forming deep inside, feeling a bit of something for the poor, wayward tourist that would wander into the local watering hole. Most thinking they had found a treasure trove of relief from the harsh glare of the Florida sun and humidity, lily white skin flushed a bright crimson from the oppressing heat of the ‘Mean Season’. 

Myka had settled in her favorite stool at the far end of the bar, trying her best to ignore the confused looks from the lost who dared to enter as Mickey and a few old, not to sober locals would embellish the horrors of the worst storm : of how the storm of ‘35 wiped out Flagler's dream. The last train to paradise, as it was dubbed by the man, his dream of opening the untapped beauty to the highest bidders, and of course, profit from his grand hotel.

The old timers relishing in the qwizzy looks and shades of green caused by the graphic descriptions of blotted, sea-critter nibbled bodies that dotted both the Atlantic and gulf side, washing upon the shores in a steady parade for weeks after.

“They omit the fact that most killed were local Irish and WW1 vets who worked the rails,” Myka whispering under her breath, knowing the bluster was a ruse to scare out the Snowbirds and ‘crazy’ rocket watchers.

“Pardon?” The accent sure and crisp as it was directed down the end of the bar, toward the shadowed figure with curls forming a curtain of protection around the revered, thick tome.

Myka let out a soft sigh as she heard the old stool scrape on the well-worn floor, pushing away from the rail of the bar, her left forefinger staying put on the last read page as she closed her book. Any other given launch month, she would shy away from any voice or contact, refusing to be drawn into the ‘best place to view the launch and care to make some fireworks of our own?’ Cheesy lines from all walks of life. The married ‘oh, the little lady is taking care of the kids’ would almost induce vomiting, causing her blood pressure to rise as she would have to hold back Mickey.

 

The very feminine voice wafting over the heavy waxed wood caused Myka pause, she was becoming more concerned at Mickey's Irish growing at the rise of the clear, crisp ‘East London?’ accent. Myka’s train of thought, of flipping through every dialect she had encountered in her short stay in London. Just a toddler, their family, not more than a week sequestered in a claustrophobic room in the American Embassy as Berlin began to crumble around them, they were then transported on a very scary ( to a 4 year old ) humongous American aircraft carrier just after the fall of Berlin.

Myka watched side-eyed as the slim, well, there was decent meat to go with those soft potatoes curves, sidled up to the seat near the woman, making sure there was a bar stool length between them.

“Which press core?” Myka asked, cutting the woman short before her eloquent introduction was released. She kept her shoulders square as she sat in her stool, her finger, which was still being used as a bookmark, was twitching just enough for the woman near her to notice the small rise and ebb of the hard book cover.

“Straight to the chase, I see. I very much respect a woman who is direct.” Helena held up her rock glass, a small sip still left in it as she tapped, oh so gently, on the top of the young girl’s empty glass.

“Sir, another round for myself and …” Myka tried, forcing her eyes to look forward but when the flash of jet black tendrils shined at the very outer peripheral, all steel nerves snapped. The young woman turning her neck, snapping at a harsh angle as she watched what she thought was maybe human ; ‘how can anything, Earth born, human, or terrestrial, for that matter, have hair fall into perfect place.

Her ugly, repressed for years, insecurities were rising as fast as the red hues on her cheeks as she willed every iota of will power, refusing to bow first to the locked will of eyes. Myka lived through the tough love and berratements ‘never be first to look away. It's a tell of weakness’ her Father's rough, graveled voice reverberating deep inside her Hippocampus.

The woman held her glass near the edge of Myka’s filled glass, eyebrow raised as she watched the woman, “Lost in thought or is it American custom to leave a salute unmet?”

“What? Ummm, sorry. Cheers,” Myka shot the full glass back, a bit too quickly, causing the girls other hand to shoot to the back of her neck, easing the ‘I want to wrench’ feeling by rubbing the back of her neck.

Mickey was leaning against the ledge of the house liquors, a faint glow from the age old Christmas lights lining the three tier shelves was shining through the top shelf brands, casting a strange hue of light amber which was now alerting Myka to the highlighted grey streaks that once was a fascination and debate of Ginger hair.

‘The true, old ones had straight, Raven black hair with eyes cold as steel and clear as the blue of the Gulf Stream kissing County Waterford’ winking at the young girl who had been sent, many a time, to retrieve her Father over the years. Mickey would come around the bar, setting the girl up on a stool, nodding for a few of the regulars to freshen up her father. Meaning a cold blast of water in the sink, the men fusing as shirt-tails were tucked and wild hair combed back. Mickey topping Myka’s Shirley Temple with extra cherries.

That fond memory would flood back to him every time Myka would make an attempt to tame her wild curls when meeting someone new. Myka, known for her lust for knowledge, had come back when she was 12, not to retrieve her father, but to argue that’ the invading Celts from what is now the UK enslaved and breed with the Irish, hence the black straight hair turning Ginger!’ Myka pointing to a graph of some gribbers of sort in this dusty old book she was showing

“Just give a cheer already Cailin, I have others to tend,” giving a faint nod to the new face.

“Cailin is a beautiful name, my friends call me HG,” Helena was pleased at first for the cheers, her raising her glass slow with each light hearted snicker escaping the other woman’s lips, soon becoming annoyed “And what, pray tell, has caused such amusement?” She was becoming frustrated with each second the young woman snickered instead of sipped. Myka covered her mouth, daring to raise her eyes to look at this beautiful woman, praying that a repressed laugh would not come out as a snort.

Myka raised her other hand to halt any more questions, tilting and shooting back the drink with the other, Helena eyed the woman cautiously as she sipped the last of hers. Helena parted her lips, her words and thoughts were halted as she watched the ink-stained thumb pad of the other woman press firm on the corner of her bottom lip, removing the fleeing felon of that last whiskey droplet from the corner of the young beauties bottom lip. The last thing Helena had ever expected was a sudden pull of long repressed emotions.

She was grateful that her arse of an editor had shoved this assignment on her, never sharing with anyone the love and wonder of the stars above her. Helena had a hearty laugh as she leaned against the wall just outside the small break room of that rag they all worked for. The clicking of her boots on the cheap tile floor was drowning out the collective sigh of the staff, ‘The Pitbull of Facts’ was going out on assignment across the pond. 

XXX

A stickler for detail and fact checking had worked her every last nerve, ‘For bloody hell HG!’ Her editor spinning in his chair at her latest piece and sudden outburst.

‘Investigative reports on Petro price fixes is about as bloody fucking newsworthy as the changing of the fucking guard!” Helena back-stepped as she crossed her arms, chin tilted up, defiant and just as ready as a prize fighter waiting for a haymaker.

“Have you read any of this rag?” Helena dropped her head slightly, preferring eye contact, “That piece from two days ago sold out.” Helena started to open her mouth, his hand flying up to stop any words. “And do you know why it was our biggest issue to date?” The man was behind his desk, resting his weight on his arms as he leaned closer.

“Because of my brilliant editing, turning garbled, unusable drivel into a cohesive article? Even after I had to scrub the filth of this rag off and, mind you, down over half a fine, vintage Merlot just so I could face the image in the mirror?”

The man sat down in his chair, flipping the pages, and then turning back to the front page, “This!” His fat-laden finger hitting the face of the couple on the front page, “This is what sells. Lady Jones, of Lord Peter and Lady Jones, a commoner, and an American no less, caught gambling in Monte Carlo, her German model at her side at the Craps table.” He held the paper up, stretching it in front of Helena. “Her Mink coat flying open as she raised her arms with that big win, see? Not a lick of clothing under. The whole UK privy to the fact that the only hair she sports is on her head”

“Yes, MacShane, I was present and thank you for having that sleaze ball Todd shadowing for the pic.” Helena turned, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she let out a loud sigh, she turned “And off the record … Hell, who am I kidding,” waving at the man as he sat back in his chair, fingers latched together as he rested them on the top of his grey, thinning head of hair.

“You have an inside scoop?” MacShane’s lips parted, yellowing teeth peeking through chapped lips, Helena repressing the urge to vacate what little breakfast she had consumed at the sight of that greasy smile.

“Parliament will convene this week,” Helena was saying, running her fingers through her hair out of nervous habit as she turned to the office door.

“Falling asleep, Wells. Readers only want to read just long enough until done in the Loo.”

“Yes, be it as it may, our readers have the attention span of a Tsetse fly, and the family will file for Annulment. The girl, off the record, banned for life. Not allowed on any UK soil.” Helena opened the office door, “I am only reporting the facts about the mission, and once the American Astronauts set foot on Terra Firma I am done.” She then looked over her shoulder, “Page 12, in between, is my letter.”

MacShane frowned, the thought of losing his best reporter caused his ulcer to flare up, reaching for the chalky tablets Helena had brought back from her assignment on the coast of Dover. A rumor of a secret photo shoot that included the American Lady Jones and the freshly single German model Annie. The supposed rumors of the lead singer, of an up and coming British rock group, had broken off their engagement after an anonymous tip.

Helena had given Todd the wrong address of the flat that the new lovers were holed up in, the thought of those photos leaking out to the public was causing a strong pain in her stomach, coughing up blood was the final straw, heeding the advice of a local doctor had led her to the chalky pills.

“I want dirt on who is getting their knob polished! That goes for everyone, flyboys, wives, those German rocket scientists, and any worker at that cape thing.” Helena lifted her free hand, waving tootles over her shoulder, closing the office door with the push of her boot behind her.

Helena looked straight ahead, Sally, MacShane’s secretary, ‘if you could call her that, a step up from call girl. ‘Probably pays her with legal pads’ saying to herself. Helena nodded as she walked by; Sally glared, giving a small hiss between her teeth.

“Doing a man’s job works wonders on your love life, HG. How are the marriage proposals going?” A small smear of red lipstick stained her to two front teeth from the oh so fake smile she was giving Helena.

“When was the last visit to the storage closet?’ Helena never looking back as she spoke, eyes trained on the countdown till the lift opened on the floor.

“None of your beeswax,” she snarked, going back to filing her matching red nails, turning, Helena smirked as she watched the woman biting at a hangnail on her naked ring finger.

“You might want to have a looky loo, a piece of carbon paper …” Helena was walking backside into the lift, her smile growing as she waved her hand at the now wide-eyed woman, finding the carbon paper had stained her white blouse as it had gotten stuck on the hem of her skirt.

 

XXX

“I am so sorry for that,” Myka fanning her palm in front of her face, willing the rush of blood away from her cheeks. She turned sideways on her stool, ignoring the bookmark as she waved for Mickey.

“I feel as if there was some sort of joke and I am the brunt of it,” Helena knew what she needed to do, turning her head away from those green eyes shooting up a quick look to confirm the young woman was watching the slow trace of her finger over the rim of the empty rock glass. Helena let her left shoulder drop slightly as she turned her neck. Knowing her hair would cascade over her pale neck.

The slight gasp of air then followed with a barely audible squeak of the worn sneakers the young woman was wearing. Myka clamped her hand down on her knee, desperate to control the quick bouncing of her leg.

A nervous tick she developed to help relieve the anxiety: elementary school was the start.

Always finishing before anyone in her classes no matter the task, her first time, she had stood up from her desk, test paper gripped loosely in her hand, a lop-sided, missing front tooth grin as the teacher looked up from her book, eyes wide and returning the little girls grin. Each row of desks she passed, heads popped up as pencils dropped.

“Nerd!”

Was yelled out, Myka was not quick enough to stop her stride, a black, shiny Maryjane shoe tripped her and the last sight was the rush of the wooden floor speeding toward her face.

“Sorry for that,” Myka shrugged, taking her hand off her knee, willing her bouncing to stop. “Nervous habit” dipping her head down, her finger seeking out a loose strand of hair.

“Do I make you nervous, darling?” Helena asking with a faint smile, reaching up to tug the curl free of Myka’s finger. “May I?” Myka following Helena’s eyes as she studied the curl now around the woman's finger, then giving a small nod. Helena then brushing the stray curl behind the young woman’s ear, her herself pulling up from the depth of her being, willing her most chivalry at keeping a proper distance, using all her might to resist the sirens draw of a heavenly scent emanating from this woman’s hair.

“Sort of, I mean we just met and I feel like I have insulted you with what amounts to a silly misunderstanding and …” the sound of heavy glasses being placed next to them was quickly followed by a hearty laugh.

“Jesus Mary and Joseph, stop babbling like a schoolgirl …” Mickey paused, cocking his head to the right, his eyes darting to the thick book sitting near the younger woman. “I guess you are a schoolgirl. How many years you got under your belt since us working class stiff version on just barely getting a high school degree?” Mickey was resting his weight on his elbows, both meaty arms just barely touching the two drinks he put in front. His head turning to look at both women, waiting for answer.

“Will you stop that, you look like a yank at Wimbledon, watching the vollies over the net,” Helena saying into her glass of water, pushing his head gently back at Myka. “Welsh?” Helena asking, trying to find some way of engaging the younger woman into conversation.

Myka made a quick grab for her glass, backing away as she slowly shook her head, “You are in for it now MS … umm?” Myka halted just before sipping, the cool glass rim pressing against her bottom lip.

“Okay, enough of this,” Mickey said, tossing the white bar rag over the taps, the old timers grumbling about refills as he rounded the corner, slipping under the server side. “First things first,” his grin was as inviting as the warm, welcoming hand he extended to the older woman.

“Patrick Macklin Kelly, US of A Navy seamen first class, retired and proud owner of the finest and truest Irish bar south of the Mason-Dixon Line.” After giving a soft handshake, his eyes widen as the woman returned his, but with a firmer grip.

“Bromley before a move to the city?” He winked as her jaw slacked a hair, “No worries love, about that Welsh crack. Was stuck with a hand of those miners while at sea. This one here,” Mickey was guiding Helena to stand in front, “We are practically kin, County Cork.” he then grabbed at Myka as she was trying to slip away from his grasp. He placed his hands on either side of Myka’s shoulders, prodding her forward until the two women were a foot apart as they faced each other.

“You said you were in the American Navy?” Helena crossed her arms, her brow furrowed as she looked at the one time Ginger.

“Oh no you don’t!” Firm voices coming from the old timers in the far corner.

‘What did I do?’ Helena mouthed to Myka, then turning to the owner, giving a confused look.

“May I be as bold to suggest you two follow the Queensberry rules,” the elder man coming up, pushing the empty pint glass at Mickey. The other five men got up, tapping their empty pint glasses on the wooden table. Myka held her right hand out, letting the elder grip her wrist.  
Helena had stood still, watching all of this and wondering just what the hell she had gotten herself into.

“I just wanted to find a pub that pours a proper pint, chat up a few locals and …”

“Shhh there lass, seeing as you are one of those,” the bar suddenly going quite, Myka watched as the elder reached for the older woman’s wrist, her tugging until Myka whispered over the short elder.

“Just go with it, the sooner it's done, the quicker they can get back to drinking,” Myka tilted her head just a little toward the table of men. Helena narrowed her eyes as she looked around at the faces of the others, then steeling her gaze on the tall woman.

“Fine, but if I find out we are married by some ancient druid … something!” Helena then leaned down, pulling the elder man near. “I will go down to Miami and bring a Santeria priest back with me and things will fall off you,” Myka covered her mouth, trying to remain respectful as she hid her smile.

“Oh no your majesty Victoria, how can you scare a man who hasn't used it in two dog years!”

The whole bar swelling with the roar of laughter, except for two, one glaring directly into watering green eyes and the other tugging on his old tweed vest.

“Seeing as you all have had a right snort at my expense.” The elder grabbing both women's wrist, laughter dying down as he cleared his throat. “You, Cailin, proper name please.” The man staring straight ahead, both women, being at least a foot taller were able to address each other without much distraction.

“My name is Myka Bering,” her voice soft but sure.

“Young lady? Your full giving name, would you please. My throat is becoming parched.

“Myka … Ophelia Bering. Happy now!” Directing her voice at both the elder and Mickey.

“My turn?” The elder nodded at Helena’s words, squeezing her wrist as he leaned in to whisper, “Seeing as you are one of them, but in a respectful meaning. I shan’t be offended with an offered pint or three if you do not hurry this up!”

“Righty ho then,” clearing her throat as she squared her shoulders, “My name is Helena Georgie Wells” Helena trying to shake off the grip the elder still had on her wrist, “What?” Looking at Myka, the girl grinning ear to ear. “And before those words are spoken …” Helena stepped up on the low wooden stage, used by local musicians on festive nights.

“Yes, HG Wells, the Father of science fiction and of which is a distant, really distinct, as in very far away distant as Australia is to here, relation.” Helena stepped off the small platform, pushing her way between the elder and his brother. “First three rounds of pints are me,” the men starting to cheer and drum on the wooden bar, singing an old drinking song.

“But ...BUT!” The men halting the celebrations, “Two things to follow if you want the first three rounds on me, every time I am in here.” The murmuring stopped, only the clank of new ice falling in the ice machine broke the silence. Helena looked over, finally making eye contact with Myka who had been lost in her own thoughts; the second sheet of ice crashing down in the machine caused Myka to jump.

“With me?” Helena asked, Myka nodding back, Helena found herself captivated by the slow bounce of Myka’s hair. Even after her head was still, the reddish hue curls seemed to have a life of their own.

“Your highness? If you please, the conditions for the gifts about to be bestowed upon us.” 

“Yes, right.” Helena saying as she ran her fingers through her hair, her own nervous tic. “Right, that makes three requests now. And no grumbling till I finish, agreed?” Her finger rose, pointing to each man until they promised. Myka gave her a soft smile and tilt of her head.

“First off, stop using any word that references me as having any relation to the monarch, agreed?” Her eyes staring at each man until they nodded.

“What about referring to you or say by some such action, you were called ...say, oh God?” Helena was speechless, her mind racing for a response. She inhaled deeply, her eyes trained on the pale jade eyes narrowing in on her. Wait, Helena though they seemed a deeper shade a few clicks ago.

Myka, she had assumed, after the first few minutes in this new place was straight and a bit of a wallflower. But this was a pleasant turn, Helena thinking to herself. 

“Your ...Miss, then what do you find acceptable?”

“George, is it?” The man nodding, though his eyes kept shifting to the warm pints that Mickey was setting up. “I prefer HG, if that is acceptable, gentlemen?”

“And the third condition?” Myka was now settling back in her favorite chair, looking up from the pages of her book.

“There will be a young man, with an array of cameras and photographic equipment coming soon, if not already here by now. If you spot him, please come to me, wherever I might be and inform me of his whereabouts. He is a snake in the grass …”

“Excuse me...HG, but that will fit the description of about, say Henry, last blast off from here, how many did that News guy, you know…” elder was smoothing his vest down, savoring the glorious sight of that perfect pint when he spoke up.

“William something not Irish, what was that number? I remember the crowds from the last time, almost made me miss my tea,”

“The point is, there are going to be thousands of strange faces, with cameras and all sorts of things within the next few days. You need to give us something better to go on, Love.” Mickey finished pouring the next round, handing Helena her shot, then walking down to Myka. “Here you go doc, club soda with a key lime”

She kept her head down, finger running over each word, then flipping to the next page, “Walter Cronkite is the newsman’s name and the chamber of commerce estimated twenty thousand people in and around the area for the launch.” Myka never lifting her head as she spoke, her hand groping for the cold soda and when she couldn't find it.

“Finally lured you out of your den,” Helena smirking as she moved the straw near Myka’s lips.

“Sorry about that, am on a tight timetable and need to have the equations ready by noon tomorrow for my dad,” Myka said, then sliding her work over to Helena, the woman nearly pressing flush against her body to see what she was studying. Helena moved the one book back toward Myka, then reached for her note pad, halting her movements.

“ Where are my manners, forgive my rudeness, I should have asked before …” Myka rested her chin on her hand, elbow firmly planted on the bar as she watched Helena’s eyes scanning her notes, her brow would furrow and Myka felt a growing warmth each time Helena’s nose would crinkle at something on the page. Myka mapped every curve and angle on those high cheeks, mental notations stored with each movement of those lips as Helena would quirk up her lips at something she was trying to understand, her lips moving in silence to herself.

“Doctor?” Helena’s question shaking Myka, her eyes darting up to then coming to a whiplash stop when she noticed small, dark gold flecks against the Mocha backdrop of Helena’s eyes.

“I'm sorry, what did you asked,” Myka quickly reaching for her soda water, not sure why she was thankful for the short reprieve from those eyes.

“I could not help but overhear Mickey referring to you as Doc. What kind of Doctor are you?” Helena asked, a small curve on her lip forming each time Myka’s eyes would dart back up to hers.

“Not a medical doctor, not really a doctor of anything yet, I have two more years on my Doctoral studies before I get my full degree and …” crossing her fingers in front of the woman, giving a hopeful smile, “One day working in the same place as my dad,”

“At Cape Kennedy?”

“Yup, that is the Bering family plan. I always had a head for solving problems, engineering new ways to improve what was already here. Dad is the same, he came up with this revolutionary idea of combining an equal number of ...and I am boring you with this, aren't I?” Myka then ducked her head. Helena felt the loss of the warmth of her body pulling away before seeing Myka move. Both not realizing how close and pressed next to one another.

“So, one could say that you are a Rocket Scientist?” Nether noticed that fresh drinks had been put in front of them as they discussed Myka’s notes earlier. Helena sipped her drink, knowing all too well the sneak attack from a good aged whiskey.

“You never said what you do, Helena?” Myka asking as she turned in her seat to face the woman.

“You never asked me,” Helena’s lips curling into a smirk as she watched with hooded eyes over the glass rim of her shot glass. “A hack reporter for a rag of a paper.” Helena shrugged, not my ideal dream job, but it pays the bills.”

“Well, your luck maybe changing,” Myka smirking as she polished off the last of her club soda, with a slice of Key lime.

“And why is that?” polishing off the last in her glass.

“I know someone who has just the place for you,” Myka winking as she went down to gather her things.

“Nothing more heartbreaking to a Mick then an empty glass,” Helena sighed as she watched the others polish off their drinks. Turning to face Myka, “Show me a good boarding house that can accommodate my stay for a minimum of two months and I, Helena G Wells will show you, the town Rocket scientist, what a truly bad piece of British trash can print.” Helena leaned over the bar, very aware of Myka gathering her things and heading to the loo, “Mickey, my new friend, any words of advice on how to get the scoop in this sleepy little town?” Helena now smiling, the liquor talking more than her true self.

Mickey set two bottles of his best aged whiskey in front of Helena, then pulling the one bottle back she had gripped, his fingers pulling her close so she could hear his words, “That one there has a spare, open since her Mother, God rest her soul,” crossing and then kissing the Celtic cross hidden under his shirt, His fingers gripped the top of Helena’s, pulling her close over the bar after he was sure Myka had left for the Loo.

“Just going to say this once, so listen up, English,” his words as hot as flames that lapped over the shell of her ear, “She is like kin to me, my little sister. Ever since what happen in that damn camp …” his grip was firm, not letting Helena retreat. She reached behind her, digging in her back pocket.

“Here, clear your senses Mr Kelly.” Helena was still held firm in his grip, but enough to pull a linen handkerchief from her rear pocket. Her breathing was surprisingly calm, her muscles relaxing. “I am very aware of the bad blood between the Celtics, losing my brother because of some ideal of a God and which is the right path to follow.” Helena hung her head, making soft contact with cool wood of the bar. She was grateful for the small, cool reprieve the wood offered from the deep, burning scars inside her.

“Mother used to say that you could tell the cut of a man’s cloth, his soul, from the linen he cared with him,” the old, gruff, retired sailor scoffing at his blubbering. “But I make no apologies for my heart,” his voice clear as he handed the now rinsed linen back to the woman. “I have been all around the world, seen many a thing but, hear me out,” his hand reaching up for his father‘s special reserve. Setting four glasses down on the bar.

They both turned their heads at the sound of Myka finishing up, “Little time to waste Wells, do not use or abuse her trusting heart, secrets are better left buried, understand me?” His grip a bit hard at the last of his words, not enough to leave a mark, but just enough to imprint his loyal heart and his meaning. “Understand me? Break her heart, I break you,” Mumbling his words through a gritted smile.

“One for the road, Cailin?” Mickey raising the proffered glass to the young woman, sliding the other to Helena, giving a wink as Helena gave a curt smile.

“Who is the other glass for?” Helena’s words escaping as she downed the smooth liquid.

Both Myka and Mickey held the small glass, nodding to Helena to join. ”For those we lost, for those to be loved, for the love our hearts,” Mickey and Myka saying together, then leaning in to sip, Myka rested her hand on the small of Helena’s back, gently guiding her to share the toast to ones lost and ones to be born.


End file.
